


Tears that Fall like Snow

by eiiven (orphan_account)



Category: K (Anime)
Genre: 2 am decisions on my end, Angst, Angst and Feels, Angst and Tragedy, Blood, Blood Loss, Blood and Injury, Canon - Anime, Canonical Character Death, Character Death, Death, Evil Laughter, HOMRA - Freeform, I Tried, I Wrote This Instead of Sleeping, I'm Sorry, Just Friends, K Project - Freeform, Manga & Anime, My First Work in This Fandom, No Smut, Other, Pain, Sad Ending, Spoilers, THAT SCENE, Tears, The Author Regrets Nothing, They all need hugs, Totsuka Tatara Death, Tragedy, no beta we die like men
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-22
Updated: 2020-06-22
Packaged: 2021-03-04 00:33:56
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,211
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24854674
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/eiiven
Summary: He was there.Then he wasn't.
Kudos: 10





	Tears that Fall like Snow

**Author's Note:**

> Hello hello!
> 
> This fic is basically a more in-depth "analysis" of Totsuka's death, from Yata's perspective. The angst-loving person in me wanted the scene to last longer, but that isn't what happened. This fic is a result. Enjoy!!

_"Mr. Kusanagi... Can you hear me? King... Do you think he'll be angry?"_

_"Hey! Totsuka! Hang on for just a little longer."_

_"Sure..."_

The first thing Yata noticed was the cupreous color that crawled across cold concrete. He didn't care that the door was nearly knocked off its hinges, nor did he acknowledge the way the evenings' chill bit at his exposed skin. His attention was elsewhere, though that was expected.

His older friends' skin took on the pallor of a corpse and it practically glowed underneath the crisp moonlight. Yata never thought he'd see the man this way; the centerpiece of some gruesome portrait stained with the color of blood. After all, Tatara Totsuka was the nicest man present among the brutes of the Red Clan. The thick ooze adorned the barren cement of the building and solace failed to follow.

This was bad. Both he and Kusanagi discerned that.

Yata Misaki was halfway across the courtyard before he even thought about it.

"Totsuka-san!" Panic gathered in the redhead's gut like bile. It was bitter on the tongue, but nothing could amount to the sight of his dear friend.

The smaller boy knelt beside the injured man. Frantic eyes darted across his bloody figure, only to allow slender fingers to tread over pale skin. Then, slowly, he raised Totsuka's head off the rough ground. Gentle hands cradled the wounded, a tremble to its hold. He was frigid, ten shades deep in agony. But, he wasn't shivering. Dried tear tracks paved over the dip of his cheeks and warm blood enmeshed with flaxen hair. Oxygen was gradually being ripped from heaving lungs, leaving scars of regret on the weak tissue.

When an answer failed to come, Yata leaned in closer. Worry kissed his temple and such an intense sensation was represented in his wavering words. "Totsuka-san! Hey! Was it another King that did this to you?!"

This time, there was a response. Discomfort stirred in Totsuka's expression, and for a single moment in time, Yata felt vile for even raising his voice. Just by gazing upon his fallen form, Yata could see the anguish his clansman experienced while he waited for their arrival. Every fiber of his being wished to expel him of this hurt. He didn't deserve it.

Totsuka opened his eyes, much slower then what Yata would've preferred. But, thankfully, he was conscious. However, there was a layer of water over those beautiful eyes of his. The usual sparkle present in his gaze was dulled like an old star that was beginning to flicker into the beclouded abyss. He was obviously slipping, and the realization struck Yata harder than any bullet, sword, or insult ever could. His breath hitched and his eyes instinctively widened.

They were too late.

He was vaguely aware that Kusanagi chastised his brash behavior, but the actual words failed to reach his ears. His attention couldn't tear from Totsuka's face. At that very moment, he wished they brought _something_ ; medical supplies, backup, anything that could shorten the gap between life or death.

Totsuka must have noticed the inner turmoil that began to sprout within him. Because some crumbled copy of a smile crossed his face; the corners of his lips twitched in an effort to maintain the low-quality simper. "Don't worry..." The man said in an attempt to reassure Yata with his common phrase. However, the utterances that left thin lips were idle and tired. It wasn't loud enough to startle a deer from its feeding ground. In the end, the attempt went awry. Thus, Totsuka tried again. However, this time, he raised a lithe hand. Ghostly pale skin was contaminated with blood, and the discrepancy between the two colors was unsettling.

"Don't worry..." He repeated, and Yata felt stunned. He could feel the other's fingertips linger on his cheek, slightly above the ear. His touch was soft, gentle, as he always was. This was Tatara Totsuka. It would've been a successful act of consolation if he didn't lack the usual warmth a human had. "It'll all work out..." The statement was muttered in one breath, and his arm gave in. On the way down, Totsuka made an attempt to further cup Yata's cheek. To provide the reassurance the redhead so obviously needed despite being the one in deaths shade. Unfortunately, though, blood slicked fingers rolled past olive skin. It left a stroke of brilliant red in its wake. Yata's brow furrowed.

"Sorry."

Death was straightforward. There was nothing subtle about it. As the young man's body suddenly sagged and once so lively eyes became anything but, it was clear. The very last breath of Tatara Totsuka lingered in the chill of night. Goosebumps crawled over Yata's body like wet paint.

Nevertheless, denial was a strong adversary of loss. "Totsuka-san?" Yata asked. A pause. A moment of breath. "Hey, don't fall asleep!" Tears pricked at his eyes and a grimace was quick to overcome his youthful features. Sorrow slashed at his heart, merciless and cruel. It was the kind of pain that death didn't follow. "Don't do this to us!" Yata's plead was broken, desperate. Mournful.

The grief surged with every expelled breath, and it always reached higher peaks. It was his master, for now. He was at the mercy of its whims and it bit at him with such ferocity he feared it would leave him an empty shell. Despite every shuddered intake of breath, nothing could sufficiently soothe him. Tears began to spill from the eyes of a young teenager. He doesn't try to suppress it, as it's like trying to not spill a cup that's full to the brim with water. Despair opened the gates.

All that was left of the blood that had once flowed thick and scarlet in Totsuka's veins was clasped in Yata's callused fingers. A streak of the Homra's loss was painted on his cheek, in one single stroke. It smelled vaguely of an abattoir. Nevertheless, Yata pulled the corpse closer to his own, fingers gripped tightly on his former friend. Knuckles white and limbs trembling, woeful sobs racked through his small body. Instinctively, he tucked his head inward, where his temple rested against Tatara Totsuka's forehead. There, he continued to cradle a comrade long gone, never to return to this mortal plane.

Somewhere on the empty structure, he could hear Kusanagi's crestfallen voice. Because of his weeping, it took a few sparse moments for Yata to comprehend the fact that Kusanagi wasn't talking to him, but to their King.

In the end, Yata was abruptly cognizant that death was crueler than anything he ever read. It was the type of pain that would stay with him until the very end when death took him as it did Totsuka. An injury that couldn't be treated. It was far worse than Saruhiko's betrayal—in fact, Misaki would rather endure that a thousand times over if it meant _he_ saw tomorrow's sunrise. But, he wouldn't. Yata knew that, not that he wanted to accept it just yet.

Unfortunately, Tatara Totsuka was no more. However, his memory would live on in the hearts—and minds—of Homra. They wouldn't allow him to die in vain. There was something bittersweet about that, but tragedy was still a tragedy. Even dressed in silk.


End file.
